


all-nighter

by rainbowodyssey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, food and alcohol mentions in text, post traumatic scully dana, traumafic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3578211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowodyssey/pseuds/rainbowodyssey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully thinks she must have finally crossed into the realm of obscenely inappropriate extraprofessional intimacy. </p>
<p>this is a traumafic where mulder and scully don't sleep together because apparently that happens pretty rarely in this fandom?</p>
<p>spoilers for season 2 and beyond.  food and alcohol mentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all-nighter

2:48 A.M.: Mulder is awake. Of course Mulder is awake. He must be wide awake, too, because he picks up the phone on the second ring. Scully hears some electric buzz on the other side of the line. She suspects old television reruns. He’s likely still in his suit and tie, shoes perhaps unlaced but still on his feet, mixing orange concentrate into his vodka and picking at takeout.

“Hello?”

She doesn’t say it this time. No wasting time. No room for overanalysis.

“I went. Today.”

A pause longer than she had planned.

“Scully?”

“I went to that, um, doctor, you recommended, the, uh, hypnosis . . . trance . . . _guy_.”

“You did, huh?”

“Yeah, um. I’ve actually been seeing him pretty, uh, pretty frequently recently. He — we talked about —“

Another pause before Mulder’s voice returns soft, too soft. Is he forcing it or is he afraid?

“About Duane Barry?”

“About Duane Barry and Donnie Pfaster and everything. Everything at Skyland Mountain. In ’94 and then again in ’98. With Cassandra.”

“Yeah? How’s it been?”

She laughs.

“It’s pretty ludicrous that this is harder than telling you about the cancer.”

“Maybe this time I’ll try to believe it.”

A small exhalation and for a second or two she smiles.

“He says it’s very probable that — that those kinds of events would be traumatizing. And he felt confident in giving a diagnosis. It’s PTSD.”

Rustling. Fabric sliding against fabric.

“You pulling an all-nighter?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“I’m already out the door.”

 

3:03 A.M.: Mulder shows up with two pizzas and a liter of Coke, and he’s already talking as soon as Scully opens the door. He shuffles in, deposits the pizza boxes on her kitchen counter, turns, and gives her the same floppy handshake he gave when they first met.

“Welcome,” his tone is downright goofy, “to the ranks. As one of Dr. Werber’s veteran patients, I thought it was only right of me to organize a little reception. I would have had champagne, but, you know, the brick oven place was fresh out of 1893 Veuve Clicquot and I thought, if you can’t have the best then what’s the point, right?”

“Did you rehearse that speech in the car?”

He shrugs. 

The pizzas are off-puttingly oily, one extra cheese, the other a truly heinous concoction of mushrooms and pineapple. Scully stuffs her mouth anyway. Despite all the grease, it seems the more palatable option. Mulder doesn’t ask, doesn’t push or pry, but soon she’s thinking about it anyway. Her stomach turns and the corn syrup cola aftertaste goes all sour on her tongue. 

_Is that sweat trickling down my face? Sweat, must be sweat, but should sweat itch like this, should it sting this bad? If Mulder isn’t saying anything, it’s nothing. It’s nothing._ She swipes the sleeve of her flannel across her forehead, lingering at her temples. _Oh god, it’s so wet. It’s too wet to be anything but blood. Why am I bleeding right now? I’m not bleeding, I can’t be, I can’t. Oh, god, don’t look at it. It’s not blood if you just don’t look at it —_

“Scully.”

“Huh?”

“There oughta be something good on t.v., eh?”

 

4:45 A.M.: The darkness outside is navy blue. There’s a black-and-white movies from the fifties playing from the tiny television set in Scully’s bedroom. Mulder’s stretched out on the bed, legs crossed and feet dangling. The carcass of a pizza sits in the box — it turns out that neither of them enjoy crust — right next to Mulder’s flask. Head a little cloudy, limbs and eyelids heavy, Scully slouches. Her cheek smushes ungracefully against Mulder’s shoulder, but it’s _so damn comfortable_ and she’s _so damn tired_. She makes the gamble that he won’t bring it up at work on Monday, and maybe it’s just the vodka, but the odds seem pretty good to her right about now. She closes her eyes to seal the deal. _Mulder_ , she’ll say, _what you so erroneously assumed was a desperate ploy for attention was actually a completely unconscious motion in my sleep!_ She’ll even throw in a eye roll or a scoff for good measure.

Mulder shifts, reaches for a quilt, and drapes it over both of their legs. Scully thinks she must have finally crossed into the realm of obscenely inappropriate extraprofessional intimacy. He reaches his arm around her shoulders and pulls her to him, her head on his chest now. His heartbeat is steady. Hers isn’t.

The movie blares on. Scully stops paying attention. Her mind wanders as everything becomes less immediate. Her thoughts are tunnel-like, she sees mountains and bridges like roadside attractions whooshing by. Her mouth is thick and soupy when she decides, half-conscious, to speak.

“When I saw Dr. Werber, I remembered something. The second time. With Cassandra. Before the fires, or maybe it was after, I thought it was snow falling. What if it was ashes, Mulder?”

This time he hasn’t had a car ride of practice formulating his answer.

“I don’t know, Scully.”


End file.
